Patience County War (Madeleine Toche Series) (25 page)

“Time to go!” he yelled, and to his surprise the big dog followed him out the back door and towards the squad. The big dog figured it out and leapt through the driver’s side window. Sam heard the machine guns open up, but they were missing their mark as he sprinted and dove through the window. Most people assume that if you’re firing an automatic weapon,
you’ll hit everything you’re shooting at, but moving targets are moving targets. Complicate that with the other guy blasting back at you with a weapon that will take your head off your shoulders, and aim is more like the old ‘hit em and hope’ pool shot, where you blast the cue ball into a group of balls and hope one of yours goes down.

Sam crashed into the squad. He twisted the key and threw the vehicle into drive and spun it around. Bullets plinked into the body and windshield, but were stopped by the armor T.J. had installed. The squad roared and shot towards one of the men who spun and fired on full automatic, trying to slow the vehicle down. Sam stomped on the accelerator and simply ran the man down. The man hit the radiator and disappeared beneath the car. Sam didn’t slow down and felt the rear tires bounce over the body. There was a bit of a bump, but more of a crunch. Something skittered across the hood and kept going. The windmill that Sam and Nathan had spent hours rebuilding went up with a whoomp! and shards of wood went everywhere. The dog had wisely hunkered down in the back seat, obviously thinking maybe he made the wrong decision, Sam thought. He could see several men coming from the woods now with automatic weapons. It wasn’t a rag-tag rush either. These men came in a skirmish line. Not good. Sam spun the wheel and the spinning tires found traction on his gravel road. He was fishtailing and sliding all over the place as he shot down his driveway and onto the main road.

As his tires got traction on the pavement the positraction kicked in, Sam smelled the stink of burning rubber as the tires roasted. But for the weight of the vehicle he would simply have slid off the road as the front end came up. The vehicle wanted to do those things, but was just a hair too heavy and instead launched down the road like a shot out of a cannon. There was smoke everywhere and the shooting had stopped momentarily. Sam punched the send button on the cell phone mounted to his dash and sent the signal out to his friends preprogrammed numbers. He flew past the restaurant and down towards his parents’ road. He thought about trying to call to warn his dad, but he would have heard some of the commotion. A rocket had blown up his windmill. Sam was extra pissed because the windmill worked and actually put some juice back into the grid and the batteries in his barn, funny, the practical things that were going through his mind while he was taking automatic gunfire. The dog was now in the front seat, sitting calmly, looking out the passenger side window. Up close,
he was huge, Sam thought. At least 200 pounds and all muscle, teeth, and mean. People tend to equate size in wild animals with corresponding size in a human being. Wrong. Sam thought about the damage a chimp can do to a person, or a cute little badger or wolverine, for that matter. A 200 pound dog that is half wolf is a bad thing, even to a 1200 pound Grizzly Bear, much less a man.

John heard Gingas first, and immediately hit the send button on his own cell. Karen was at Madeleine’s,and he had to trust that she was safe. Seconds later he heard the first crash of gunfire. It sounded like a shotgun. He ran to his barn and fired up his jeep.

“Come on boy, come on boy,” he tensely muttered waiting to hear return fire and then he did, the big crash of a three shot pattern.

“That’s Special Forces shooting back, you bastards!” he screamed. “Shooting god damn back!”

More gunfire and the unmistakable sound of that crazy squad firing up. He thought of all the jokes Sam had endured about that noisy, ridiculous machine. He thanked God for it now. Then he heard the detonation of the rocket, but the squad roared on. The fight was coming. He drove the jeep to the edge of the trail leading into the woods and waited. It would be a matter of seconds. Just as he jumped out of the driver’s seat for a second, he heard a single shot and an instant burning sensation as a bullet grazed his upper back. He threw himself to the ground and heard another single, far off shot, but nothing hit near him. Jerry’s in the trees, he thought. Old habits die hard. No matter how many battles he’d fought it was the endless slog, from D-day to Germany and the end of the War that he lived every day. His combat in Korea and Vietnam had been every bit as terrifying but, as an officer, more controlled. He could have avoided almost all of it, but he could not sit still while his men were in danger. He just couldn’t.

Sam came careening around the corner and slammed the squad sideways at the end of the bridge that crossed the creek onto his father’s property. Sam threw open the door and, as he sprinted away, he glimpsed the big dog disappear into the woods. He saw his dad crouched down by the jeep and the red stain across his back. He yelled, “Dad!”

“Sniper, just creased me, I think somebody got him.”

“Crockett’s out there. If he saw a muzzle flash, that dude is done,” Sam said.

Sam and John leapt into the jeep and John accelerated into the trees and up the trail.

“I think we’ve engaged the enemy, boy!” John said, bouncing around in the seat. Sam held on as best he could. Army jeeps of that vintage were only marginally comfortable for the driver, who had something to hold onto. Passengers were often tossed and the vehicles rolled. John had added a roll bar and welded on a couple of grab bars. He didn’t want to jettison any passengers on just such an occasion as this.

“Joseph and Nathan?”

“Joseph will be in the trench by now. Nathan is roaming, according to plan. Trench warfare was not made for giants. Nathan moves best at top speed, crashing across the African plains or through the Missouri woods. Besides, apparently the farther away from you, the better,” he grinned.

“I suppose that holds true for everybody,” Sam said flatly.

“Just remember there Hondo, this isn’t only about you. I was born in this county and a lot of people see this as an attack on their way of life, their little corner of peace and solitude in the world. These bastards think they can come in here and poison our children and then punish us when we retaliate. When every single one of us is dead, then they can try.”

Sam realized he was getting a little bit of a civics lesson from a man who had defended his country and way of life abroad and saw this as an attack directly on his home. You didn’t stand around and wait for somebody in authority to tell you it was ok to defend yourself, you just did it.

“Once we blast these clowns to hell, we’ll give Tracy a call,” he offered.

John flashed him a grin and a firm nod, and yelled, “Airborne!”

Jose watched in shocked disbelief as the huge animal tore past him and leapt onto the back of his man. The Uzi he held in his hand dropped to his side, and his mouth dropped open in disbelief. Lion crouched down on the ground behind him making his body as small as possible. What the hell was that? A damn werewolf for Christ’s sake? He ran towards the house just as the man broke cover and dove into his squad. He yelled “fire,” and the backup man fired the rocket at the vehicle, game over, he thought. Then, suddenly everything went wrong. The rocket skipped across the hood of the car and blew up the windmill. He screamed into his walkie-talkie that was connected to his men at the restaurant, but got nothing but static.

M
adeleine, Christine, Yves and Karen worked in the kitchen and were half listening and half watching a French football match on the television. When Karen called it soccer they all corrected her in unison. They were all in a good mood, as the Sunday meal was always a highlight of the week: great food, lazy and unhurried, real living, nowhere to rush off to.

Madeleine had gone down to the cellar to bring up some new wine that she had just gotten in. A little kitchen prep tippling was in order. It was just then that a delivery van pulled up to the back door.

Christine looked out and saw some company name on the side and thought it must be a delivery, but on Sunday? Just as she walked to the door, three men burst in. Christine tried to push back but was overpowered and thrown backwards into the heavy center chopping station, striking her head as she fell. Yves ran at the man who had hurt his mother. He was struck forcefully by the stock of a rifle and fell back, knocking down his chair and falling into the wall. Karen had no time to react and had a gun pushed into her face.

Madeleine heard the commotion upstairs and the cries of Christine and Yves and the yelling of the men. It took everything she had not to charge up the stairs. She had no weapon downstairs, and silently cursed herself for moving unarmed. Besides, she reminded herself, even if she had a bunch of guns going off in a confined space, the chances were everyone was going to get shot. It wasn’t like the movies. She’d seen dead men fire weapons their fingers locked on the trigger. She needed something, though. She glanced quickly around the room and knew she only had seconds. A head count would show that she was gone and undoubtedly a door leading off the kitchen would get opened first. Damn it! So much clutter down here. Her mind raced and then she saw it: on a shelf was an old kit bag. The one her husband had carried throughout the war and used on fishing trips. She hurried over to it and ripped it open. A small wash kit was inside with an old fashioned straight razor. She grabbed it and put it down the front of her pants. It wasn’t the first time in her life she’d hidden something there. She knew the value of that hiding place depended on the nature and experience of the man or woman searching you. Some just didn’t search you down there. Most idiots, or the untrained, look in more places when they buy a car than when searching a prisoner. She just had time to turn around and grab a bottle of wine when the door burst open.

“Don’t move,” a burly looking man with a wicked scar along the right side of his face yelled.

Madeleine purposefully dropped the bottle and began a weepy pleading cry, “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.”

The man came over and roughly grabbed her by the arm and pushed her ahead of him up the steps. She stumbled into the kitchen and caught herself on a shelf of pots and pans. Christine cried out and tried to get up and was roughly grabbed by the hair and thrown back down to the floor. Madeleine saw that Yves was bleeding profusely and went over to him. The men allowed her to do so and she cradled his head in her hands and lap. She could tell that the wound was minor, and like most head wounds, was bleeding freely. She also knew that the bleeding would lessen and clot up soon. This was maybe a few stitch cut.

“Now that we have your attention, there will be nothing but absolute obedience,” the larger scarred man said.

“Search them,” he commanded.

“I will search this one,” a ratty looking man said, and motioned for Christine to stand up. The other men leered and watched as Ratty pushed Christine up against a wall and slowly ran his hands over the entire length of her body, paying special attention to her breasts and crotch area, he whispered to her and then said aloud, “This your Mommy, brat? I like her. She’s going to take care of me later.” Christine bit back a yell, terrified for her grandmother and her son.

“Follow the plan and separate them. The old women stay here. The boy goes in the basement, this one upstairs,” the leader instructed.

“Do as they say, Christine,” Madeleine wailed like a lost, terrified child. Christine heard her say the words, but when she met her eye she saw something there she had never seen before. She’d seen her grandmother angry, agitated, happy, but what she saw now was animal, blank and bottomless. Even under these circumstances she shivered involuntarily and allowed herself to be dragged away.

Madeleine sat down on a bench with Karen beside her as the two men who were left in the room pointed their guns at them. She thought that to her credit, Karen was holding up well, this not being a natural occurrence for her. Karen had been patted down with no enthusiasm or effort. They hadn’t even bothered with her, an old, terrified biddy. She would play this role the same way she had played the amorous, foolish French sex-pot all those years ago. She’d killed so many that way she could not see their faces. She remembered a few and guessed that maybe those were the ones that tugged at her conscience a little, until she thought of her brother and her comrades in the resistance and ordinary townsfolk shot based on information from a collaborator. A few had been her friends who made a bad choice and threw in with the wrong side. She killed them too, and made sure they saw who did it, as punishment for their crimes against their friends, families, and France.